Now the wasted brands do glow;
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,

SONG.
Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud.

IN TWELFTH NICHT.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,

Come away, come away, death,
Every one lets forth his spite,

And in sad cypress let me be laid; In the churchway paths to glide;

Fly away, fly away, breath, And we Fairies, that do run

I am slain by a fair cruel maid. By the triple Hecat's team,

My shroud of wbite, stuck all with yew, From the presence of the Sun,

O prepare it; Following darkness like a dream,

My part of death no one so true Now are frolic; not a mouse

Did share it. Shall disturb this' hallow'd house:

Not a flower, not a flower sweet I am sent with broom before

On my black coffin let there be strown; To sweep the dust behind the door.

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be throwt: A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O! where

Sad true lover ne'er find my grave,
SONG.

To weep there!